Senzafine
by ajattra
Summary: A collection of RobinxAmon standalones written for 30angsts at LiveJournal.
1. Streets

_S e n z a f i n e _

by saint's hands

005: TRUE LOVE ( seeking for you)

A single snowflake landed on her shoulder after swirling around for a stretched moment. In the past she would've reacted to it with childish wonder, smiled even. Now she merely watched her overcoat absorb it and continued walking after spotting him watching her from a short distance. She closed the space between them and slipped her arm under his, knowing it was what he'd expected from her. Her other hand remained deep in her pocket where she was still fingering an old, wooden rosary. Not quite the nun she'd been, or an atheist either.

The year between now and then had skimmed off some of her naiveté and adolescence. He'd made her grasp a gun, pull of the safety with calmness beyond her years and experience and fire it. Killing with a bullet was so different from killing with her Craft. A bullet made it real; made it a crime, a murder, a sin. It didn't empower her or lie to her about its nature, the way it made her feel. So in his opinion the only weapon she should hold ought to be a gun. While she couldn't quite agree, she obeyed.

Her reverence for him had grown when he'd been able to defeat his inner demons, and then hers. She'd come close to losing the light for good when her hungry flames had escaped her control and burned everything in the Factory to the ground. Amon had been there to keep her sane, help her survive the withdrawal that'd forever imprinted her with fear for her Craft. He'd forgiven everything without question and she'd submitted to him, believing his vision was without obscure unlike hers. After that change had been inevitable and slowly she'd become his creation rather than Toudou's.

Amon didn't like it when she half-smiled this mysteriously and wandered a few steps behind him. Her smiles had become a rare treasure he cherished and anticipated against his calculating character. She had no idea of this anticipation though. In the end it was unbelievable that out of the two he was the weaker one for needing such trivial things. But he was.

Amon held tighter onto her arm, perhaps for reassurance that she wouldn't disappear on him again. She was what'd begun to define him after all. Existence without her – he didn't even want to consider it willingly. Robin took notice of his anxiety immediately and knew something bothered him. Her nowadays trademark dark expression softened up a little when she leaned against his shoulder, landing her other hand over it as well.

"What is it?" She asked. He glimpsed at her shortly and then returned his eyes on the road.

"I haven't seen you smile lately," he confessed in his usual straight-forward style. The wind tossed his open and unruly hair around almost fiercely. It'd grown longer but remained the exact opposite to her silky hair by being rough and untameable.

"I feel trapped."

She failed to mention whether that feeling was physical or mental and he knew it was both. Italy created distress for him as well for some undetermined reason. Then there was also the falsity of their current relationship. Somewhere along the way they'd embraced the behaviour of a brother and sister. They weren't siblings. Behaving like that didn't erase reality, and reality was she'd started to bloom and he wasn't as blind to it as he would've liked.

"Do you want to leave then?"

The decision was hers; he'd be content anywhere where she wanted to go or at least as content as he was right now. The change of location wouldn't change anything between them. He'd still have to sleep with his back at her when she tied her arms loosely around his torso. He couldn't watch her during the morning when she wasn't clad in her armour of high collars, tight hair-dos, and long hems. A single strand of loose hair made him want to grasp it; a single glimpse of her skin had him shivering. Her smile had the ability to completely disarm him.

He was bewitched and no location would change it. Distance between them would only kill the last spark of sanity and restraint in him.

"Could we live somewhere uneventful? Somewhere where you don't need to turn around to find me when I stray?"

She wanted him to say no. That he'd never fail to catch her movement, or gestures, or the tones in her voice. He understood her didn't he? If he watched over her she might pretend everything was alright and they weren't in hiding or pretending; that their closeness wasn't falsity. He needed to watch over her because he wanted to.

"There is no such place," he hid his truth with his monotonic voice, completely discarding such an occurrence from ever happening. Even when he didn't watch her, he sensed where she was. He knew what she was feeling.

Robin simply smiled at him, downright beamed. She'd learned to appreciate the small victories over Amon. Even though neither of them wanted to separate or argue, the power play had slowly begun between them. They represented opposite forces in that game; he the natural order of things, a sense of what was proper and just, whereas she was the represent of anarchy, chaos.

As a child her impulses had been bound with strict discipline. The list of decent joyous things had been short and felt hollow when compared to her current life. Nowadays the thrill could emerge from anything: her associations with him, their escape, or the small "sinful" things she'd never even thought of doing while contained by her faith. He was still the living proof of solid restrictions and how they affected one through-out his entire life. He'd felt more comfort in her company when she'd still been a loyal child and not the mischievous woman she was learning to become. Her release seemed to serve only the function of somehow salvaging him as well, which he could not understand.

Yet with Robin's smile Amon felt pleasurable jolts of satisfaction lick his skin all around. Now that was what he'd waited, that was a sign of his Robin. Never maturing, never aging, and never tainted: she remained that way in his eyes. He was like an addict she'd given a syringe to for those few seconds. Then the magic number erased every sinfully good thought in him and he pressed his head down, bound again.

"We should move." He sounded almost grim to her, making her realize that their moment had passed and the role was upon him again. Whenever they were outside, whenever he felt threatened, the role was what he returned to in order to regain his control: Her precious Amon, always hiding himself from everyone. He kept even her at an arm's length, but when she wasn't supposed to look the endearment in his eyes was beautiful.

When they had left together she'd known there were only three ways things could end between them. First she'd wanted so much to show him how much she cared for him. That plan had soon been spoiled by her crashing as the addiction began to take over. He didn't seem troubled at that time though, which gave her hope. He hadn't considered hunting her, ending her when she'd proven to be the weak thing he'd always pictured her into. By recovering she'd come to realize they wouldn't end in death by each others' hands. Not anymore.

After that the option of indifference began to linger in her mind. She feared he would become numb to her and all conflict; all the hidden fire and passion between them would slowly fade. This was what she tried to fight even now. He was in a coma, unable to progress or move forward with anything; forever trapped in that sight of her trying to hold onto him when the wrath had come. He'd seen her unshielded, naked and without luminosity. No halos or praising words, just a girl suffering because of the concentrated evil that'd begun to awoke inside her.

A child: Someone who needed his care, someone he had to shield.

It was difficult for him to open his eyes now and see her. Yet that was the only way they would end the way she wanted to: in unison, in perfect harmony. They were a perfect match of body and soul in her mind where all other dreams had become ghastly or died from the lack of oxygen. Surely by now she knew there was no grand scheme in store for her and that her fancy title meant nothing in reality. The crazy ramblings of a fanatic, that's what the cryptic messages of the Eve were.

Amon was kind to her about it though, he never even mentioned it. He just held onto her hand tightly and stared at the horizon with strict eyes and forehead. She loved him for that, for many other things as well. He was so beautiful, so divine in her eyes, and the rapture wouldn't end no matter what he did or how he dodged her questions and affectionate gestures. He just wouldn't see what was right in front of him.

Robin wasn't as cheerful as before. She'd forgotten how to smile again upon realizing how monotonic his voice was, how cold he could be in his denial. He'd allowed her to tie her hands around him at night, breathe her sleepy breath against his back and nestle against him. She did it every time, tried her best not to cry because even when her tears wet the fabric of his shirt he wouldn't turn around, though she could feel him stir as if already awake and caught deep in the webs of a dilemma. It saddened her even more.

"I want to go home," she pleaded. Now, before she'd be reduced to tears and forced to explain herself. She needed to surround herself with the familiar walls of their hideaway, that distant house and the garden that bloomed in the backyard. She couldn't stand playing her part in this play anymore; it was too cruel.

Amon didn't reply, merely guided them towards a different destination silently, unable to grasp what he'd said or done to take away her joy again. All he knew was that there were times when she was laid wide open before him, and he loved those moments, but ended somehow always killing them.


	2. Impure Heart

_S e n z a f i n e _

by saint's hands

025: TO TOUCH THE DEVIL IS TO DIE ( dying from bliss)

-

"I thought you were supposed to downplay your drinking?"

At first he thought of ignoring that voice speaking to him and just focused on the way the dim light reflected from the brown liquid and the rocks in his glass. At its brightest the sight only made him think about her hair unleashed on her shoulders, the way it shone in the sun like tainted gold. Her hair had become darker over the years hadn't it? At first it'd been the purest light brown, so lovely, but then it'd begun dimming. Just as her smiles had been replaced with longing glances along the years; her eyes had been so desperate to say something he didn't want to hear.

"There's ice in the glass," Amon mumbled softly, showing his glass to the person beside him lazily. His movement wasn't as sharp as it'd been before; the delirium had slowly started to have effect. The highest buttons of his white shirt were open, the sleeves rolled up to meet his elbows. The tie hung around his neck lazily, its tip thrown over his shoulder as if to stay out of harm's way. His hair was on a tight ponytail, not a single hair escaped it. He'd grown older, wasn't that same young man everyone had trusted Robin's life with.

His guest pulled a chair closer, sat on it and continued observing. Amon brought the glass to his lips again, prepared to drown it as usual, wishing it could actually keep those images from pouring in and out of his mind. The nuns had sent him another picture today. She'd been standing by a tall tree, leaning against it and inspecting her shoe. Its heel had broken but she seemed to embrace the information calmly, instead focused on some dark thought looming in the background. He'd tried hard not to witness the passing of time evident in that picture, but it'd felt like a cold blade in his gut. He missed seeing the fire dancing in her eyes.

"Do you miss her?"

"No," he lied. What was the use of revealing how their distance had only made his thoughts circle her more obsessively?

He was a sick man with a sick wish and he'd liked nothing more than to be able to finally bury it. He wasn't given release though – No, despite his wishes and requests a letter still arrived every now and then. It contained pictures and a short description of what'd been going on in her life for the passed few months. He didn't even have enough self-discipline to keep himself from reading. The pictures were on his wall, looking back at him at night when he tried to get some sleep but was kept awake by his mistakes, his longing. She never smiled.

"I think you're lying."

"What's it to you anyway?" Amon asked, suddenly rather curious of his guest's obscure motives. He hadn't stayed in contact with anyone, just barely Robin and even that was indirect. Amon hadn't needed anyone in his life – not after he'd given up her as well. As heavy as solitude tasted, it was for the better. He wasn't a good man by anyone's measure.

"You took her in after the incident at the Factory, cared for her, gave her a life as normal as possible. Then all of the sudden you abandoned her and don't even keep in touch anymore. Why, Amon?"

Amon ran his hand over the smooth wooden surface of the counter. Everything in this world had become crude and without detail. Everything felt like a rehearsal and he tried his best but kept failing. Why was that? – Because something was missing? – Because something was there to cut him down after every act? The unspoken and hideous thought that drew the lines for everything…

"She's too young…" …For me.

There. He'd allowed himself to even think that thought; given it shape and form and thus power over his listless spirit.

"In what sense?"

Was there any other sense? Amon rocked the glass in his hand, swirling it around so that the ice sailed the alcohol's surface calmly. If he was the ice, she was the liquid right down to the burning in his throat when he consumed it. He should know for he'd had his weak moments with her, allowed himself to taste what was forbidden once or twice. That was the cause of his change, why he was so stricken. She'd been very damaging to his calm upon a time, nearly brought him down for good. He'd won eventually though, cut her out and regained control.

Still she was a sweet memory despite the arguments and tears and regrets that he'd been inflamed with probably for many years to come. There wasn't quite anything that could compare with the bliss that Robin brought along with a simple look, or a random thought spoken aloud, or – god forbid – an accidental touch. She'd been in love and unwilling to not act on it. He'd never allowed himself to admit he'd loved her too. She'd seemed to read his thoughts enough as it'd been. There was nothing quite as consuming as denial.

"It was not suitable for me to raise her, that's all," Amon finally said, rinsing the answer down his throat with a long gulp from his drink. The ice protested, but the alcohol went down smoothly and complimented him with the calm that followed. His body felt light, the tie was close to falling down from his shoulder and that picture of her still haunted his mind. He couldn't even think her name, it felt like betrayal. He could admit to caring deeply for Robin, but to name his silent obsession was too disturbing.

"Curious, I thought you would do anything to be close to that girl?"

Was that a hint: A dry note as to his guest being fully aware of his 'attachment' to the little witch? Amon brought the glass to his lips again, pouring the last of the bright liquid down his throat, leaving the ice to occupy the glass alone. They no longer made any noises of protest, just stood there silently, giving up. Amon took another look at his highly unwanted guest, deciding that he wasn't the only one who'd grown older. Although his guest was still exactly where he'd been when Robin had first entered their lives, Amon had at least moved on. He'd abandoned Solomon, hadn't he? He now had a regular, boring job that paid well and supported his equally boring life brilliantly.

"I've been to your place," his guest continued, throwing a marking glance over at Amon. "You haven't furnished much. You'd think a man of your position could afford more than one plate?"

He ignored the sarcasm and the critique for his living conditions. What he focused on was the information that this person had actually had the nerve to break into his home to find out if he was doing as well as he claimed. If he'd been inside his home, he'd most definitely had to have seen her pictures on his wall. She was right there beside his bed, next to the only picture he had of his mother. He didn't know why but the two were always side by side on his wall like sisters. They only shared one similar trait and it was their witch inheritance.

He'd watched them both give in to the temptation. One he'd lost for good and carried the scar most of his life – The second he'd been able to salvage through a lot of work. He'd tried opening his heart again but she hadn't been just a devoted child, she'd wanted more – too much.

"What is your point?" Amon asked, the dark thoughts embracing him completely by now. He wasn't irony anymore; indecisiveness had crept upon him and could easily be read from him. His guest noticed this chance.

"You won't even say her name, Amon."

True. It was easier to partly deny her existence when he didn't use her name. It was easier to try and forget. He didn't want oblivion though; just some peace of mind and the fond memories to remain without cutting him each time he opened his mind to them. It was a self-preservation thing, something that kept him together.

"You're not living: Just clinging onto her despite the fact that it was you who sent her away."

He drank coffee in the morning; its scent reminded him of her and how she used to make him his coffee in the morning. He went to work, missing the action and thrill of the hunt though he knew he couldn't do it anymore. He missed her excited look when they prepared to go after a witch: That smug smile that affected even him. He came home to an empty apartment and saw her face on the wall and stared at the phone, unable to pick it up and dial the number.

"I'm going out, meeting people. Everything is just fine." His voice wasn't really convincing, nor did he need to be.

He didn't need to prove anything to anyone. He took full responsibility of his own decisions, but that was something his guest here had never understood. He was always second-guessing and probing into things that really were none of his business. This man was never sated, could never settle down, or live without the jolt, the excitement of the unknown. Amon just wasn't like his brother. Constant change was his life; he didn't get attached or addicted to anything.

"Really?" Nagira asked, his voice disbelieving to the core. "Sitting alone in a bar, getting drunk is sociable behaviour? When is the last time you've met someone other than a co-worker?" When he looked at Amon again, saw how his gaze avoided looking back and was looking at the selection of drinks instead, Nagira forgot about his question all together.

"So what if she was a child when you first met? She's a young woman now, and rather foxy if the pictures are to be believed. You don't have to waste your life because you think you did wrong by her all those years ago."

Amon's glare was burning when he directed it back at his brother. That old fool knew nothing about the situation and yet he couldn't stop meddling! He didn't want his help or advice! Nagira had no idea of what was going on, or what had happened. No one had asked him to step in and 'save the day' in his usual irritating style. Life just didn't work like that. Not then, not now.

"Leave now."

It was not a request; Nagira ignored it never the less. Amon had never been able to intimidate him the least. Sure his younger brother could cast the coldest looks at you, perform tasks of terrible atrocity without blinking and take in heavy violence with no complaints, but Nagira had always felt that Amon rarely felt anything beneath it all. He was just numb. He was not capable of passion, was he? He was just somehow disconnected. Somehow Nagira felt he'd be more stirred if Amon actually showed any emotion, but as usual he just settled to cut off everyone and mourn his losses alone.

"I'm not backing down this time." Another empty threat that had no effect on its target.

Amon had grown attached to Robin though, even if it wasn't a passionate kind of love. The fact that he'd brought her to Nagira and continued to protect her after he'd learned of Robin's true history proved it. Nagira had never seen Amon care like that. Sure he'd been a loyal hunter and soldier to his boss and had many other people he'd looked up to in his life, but not once had he been so devoted. Nagira could only wonder what it was that'd made him suddenly decide he couldn't handle being with her.

Amon had given his brother two warnings and he didn't give a third. Before Nagira could react, Amon had already stepped forward and grabbed his him from the collar of his shirt, efficiently gaining his brother's full attention. Nagira finally spotted that passionate burn in Amon's usually dull eyes as well and was delighted to find it. It proved his brother still had that spark within him somewhere, even if it'd been buried for decades.

"I'm strong now but I wasn't strong always. She suffered and I can never repay her. Don't ask me to." He'd really allowed himself to love her, despite it being all kinds of wrong. It was a crime, a sin so deep that it still scorched him at night. She'd been so young, so fragile. He hadn't saved her to use her. He'd just wanted to do right by her, shelter her to show his appreciation. She'd brought life back in him and because of his mistake, that light had gone out again.

Surprise lingered on the older brother's face. The grip holding him eventually loosened and Amon's limb hands fell on his sides. The guilt on his face was intense, the clearest emotion Nagira had seen. The façade had fallen it seemed.

"I have work tomorrow," Amon announced, grabbing his jacket from the seat and making his way past his guest. By now his chest was on fire and the hurt ran deeper than it had for years. He needed to salvage what he could. That was all he had left.

Nagira didn't object. There was a lot to deal with after this night and its revelations, although knowing his brother he was probably making a lot of noise over nothing. He watched his brother go, contemplating everything that'd taken place. Knowing Amon, it was probably a misplaced kiss: A misinterpreted moment. In the eyes of an intolerable world something completely innocent could still be evil.

But despite his assurances even Nagira couldn't be sure it was just that. All of his plans for reuniting the two were suddenly on hold as Amon's terrible guilt made him exceptionally gloomy as well. He concentrated on the party that was known for her sincerity and clairvoyance: Surely Robin wouldn't look at him like that in those pictures if she bore any grudge? And whatever the crime, hadn't Amon already paid for it with this mockery of life he'd led ever since?

* * *


	3. Inferno

_S e n z a f i n e _

by saint's hands

001: BROKEN ( killing for the sake of killing)

-

Flames all around them and then yet another part of roof surrendered to the hungry fire that devoured it with haste. The wreckage that descended from above blocked the passageway he'd hoped to use to get to the surface. He longed to breathe that lovely fresh air again and just lie under the sky after they'd survived this inferno. He longed to see her awake, to tell her it'd all been just a bad dream.

She was lighter to carry than he'd anticipated. When he'd knocked her out, wrestling with the little devil that'd taken over her body then and there, he'd had to press his teeth together so hard that his gums had bled. He had wanted to run outside with her, not carry her now that everything was over. He'd wanted to tell her he was proud of her and that everything would be alright now. But she had enjoyed it! Enjoyed lighting the fires and making them chase the helpless victims the Factory was full of: her unconscious fellow sufferers.

Robin, his strong-willed Robin, had been so close to falling, to becoming like the rest. He couldn't let her live through that, to die after being hunted like a mad dog. He'd tried to save her and she had tried to kill him in return. They'd wrestled in the ground, broken her hair-do, leaving that blonde hair to frame her pale face that was twisted with rage. It'd become more and more entangled as the battle had continued to grow increasingly physical. His Orbo-pendant blocked her Craft, infuriating her further. There was no sane light in her green eyes.

She'd punched him, bruising her precious hand in the process and leaving him with an ache that wouldn't be silenced even now. In his head, there was a constant hammering, a blaming voice of reason that told him to lay her down and leave here to burn with the rest of the insane witches. He didn't follow it, but turned around instead and adjusted her position in his arms before he started running again. Maybe it was a mistake; maybe he was losing his mind as well. Still he couldn't help thinking that if he'd trusted her this far just to leave her at the sight of terror, he might as well killed her back when he was first ordered to do so.

The smoke was growing thicker and his mind dulling as he grew more tired. Their fight had really exhausted him. He hadn't expected such ferocity from the young girl, for she'd always relied on her Craft rather than close range combat. He wasn't stupid though; a hunter of her calibre had other talents besides using her powers. It was how she continued surviving as the missions grew tougher. Amon grimaced, stirring because of the pain the simple expression inflamed his cheek with. She'd clawed him, sunken her sharp little nails through his skin like it was paper. Now the wounds were bleeding again.

Robin remained moderately unharmed, if you didn't count him knocking her out eventually. He hadn't been able to use dirty tricks with her, or hit her so that it'd leave real bruise. He'd tried to calm her down first and foremost, to contain her so she didn't harm herself or him anymore; so really most of his suffering was really his own undoing. Hell, she'd even bit his ear during one of her first tantrums! She was twice as aggressive as the most aggressive witch Amon had hunted in the past and he didn't know why.

The smoke irritated his throat and eyes but he kept going, holding her tighter against his chest so that she didn't breathe the toxins in the air directly. She was just a child; she wouldn't probably even remember any of them when she woke up or so he hoped. It passed with some witches. They only had fits when the power became too much at once by being associated with huge emotional stress or shock. Afterwards they reverted. According to his brother, his mother had been just like that: Sane one moment, completely out of control the next. Problem was that the chain of events fed itself; if the violence became too severe or the actions that'd been taken too stressful, reverting became more and more difficult.

STN didn't separate the witches that went haywire; they hunted everyone equally. It didn't matter that some diseases were treatable.

Amon didn't believe that anymore. Robin could take it. She'd been through so much to give up now so she'd survive this too. He'd help her; mend her back together and save her once again. How he'd become this mockery of a knight though, he had no idea. Ever since the beginning he'd had his eyes on her, watching and waiting for the order to kill. But he hadn't been able to and he'd failed. If he wouldn't kill her someone else would and that's how he'd realized he was protecting her. Everything had happened almost by accident. One choice had brought him on the opposite side of the battle, changed everything.

He pushed through the smoke, holding her head against her chest protectively. His heart was racing, every muscle in him felt sore and numb at the same time. She'd destroyed Zaizen's escape route, but had to be some other way out. Amon wouldn't accept failure now, not when they were both hanging by a thread. Not when the worst was behind.

A shadow appeared to the corner of his eye, causing him to turn around quickly and remove one arm from Robin to point out his gun. Her feet fell to the floor and she slipped a bit lower against his chest, but stayed in his grasp adequately even with one arm. The freak that was standing across them with a burning torso didn't give him enough time to correct her position so the battle quickly became a rough ride for her unconscious body. Amon fired at the half-alive witch that launched at them screaming terribly. The bullets hit their target, but didn't slow it any. He pulled them both aside, diving onto the floor while still holding her tightly against his chest.

He emptied the clip quickly, pulling out the few witch hunting bullets he had with him and slowly lowering Robin from his hold to the floor. The witch had turned around now, its hair and poor excuse of clothing already devoured by the fire. Amon felt its stare, so full of hate for anything living that wasn't in equal agony with it, and closed the clip of his gun. He felt sorry for every witch he'd hunted and brought to this place for dissection and torture. He felt guilty for not being able to help even though he now knew the truth. But he knew Robin was indefinitely more important than these lost souls, and all he could do for them anymore was to give them a peaceful ending.

An invisible force grabbed him lifting his feet off the floor and throwing him backwards but by then the bullets were already fired. They hit their target without error, each drawing a painful squeal as they sunk into the burning flesh of the witch and paralysed it. The witch fell down with a thump, still stirring and alive when it met with the floor. Amon fell through the air as well, but he fell on his feet like a graceful feline, pointing the barrel of his gun at the pathetic creature one more time. The last shot ended its movement and all coherent thoughts.

He'd killed so many people it didn't feel like much anymore. Amon's numbness was what kept him moving. With any weaker nerves, he would've broken down a long time ago. He tolerated it all never flinching, never regretting. Robin was the only exception. He looked at her blissful serene face, when he lifted her from the ground and couldn't say he regretted saving her for a second. She'd reached with her small hands and gotten through his armour, in its place mainly because of his mother. After that, he'd felt everything when it came to her.

He was on his feet again, holding her with his ever-diminishing strength. He'd crawl if he needed to do, use every last bit of strength he had to accomplish this task. He was a soldier, efficient to the core. Not a single breath would be wasted. So his trailed, as he pushed himself onwards. To serve her like he'd served Zaizen, give her that same loyalty. Such childish thoughts, and yet they felt so right.

The coughing become rougher, the irritation in his throat wouldn't vanish just like that. And the underground corridor seemed to go on forever. The big hero was getting weary, his grip losing its strength. Even his thoughts were losing their coherent patterns and becoming chaotic. The situation really seemed hopeless, didn't it? Having her lie in his arms like a broken toy, motionless and seemingly inanimate. He wished she was standing up now, pulling him from his hand, forcing him to go on.

She wouldn't leave him behind, not when he'd saved her for the first time, when she'd been about to be hunted. Her desperate attempts to bring him with her had puzzled him then, but not anymore. Nobody wanted to face the uncertain tomorrow alone, not when there was another shoulder to lean against. This time he couldn't abandon her afterwards, nor did he want to.

He repositioned her in his arms. This fierce cherub would not awaken until he had saved her and brought them both back to the bare sky. She would not forgive him for hurting her or smile at him in that charmingly reassuring way of hers until that moment. It was motivation enough, yeah, with that just that he'd find his way out of this hell.

Somehow he still found the strength to run.

* * *


	4. Reality

_S e n z a f i n e _

by saint's hands

024: BLUSH (no future)

-

It's easy to cry when you realise everyone you love will reject you or die. It's easy to cry when despite every effort you're simply not enough for them. You come to realize your feelings were strong, but based on illusion. The person you loved would've never let you down like this. The person you loved wanted to keep you safe at any cost.

He climbs on top of her, covers her naked form and for once everything is smiles between them. Kisses, caresses, his weight and the touch of skin on skin: everything melts into one. He's having trouble finding her, but it only stings once when he does. She lets him do everything, is drained from the first moment and he uses that short time well. She's shaking, overwhelmed, gasping. When the shaking stops, she's seeing stars and he's already laid down next to her. He holds her, pulls her close and she's content.

But when he's fallen asleep, her thoughts are flying, closing in on panic. Her anxiety won't let her sleep. He shifts, changes the way he holds her more than once during the night. She's cold and new, and doesn't know why that is. She's afraid of the light of dawn, of what it'll bring along. She can smell the blood, has seen the stains, but knows for sure he hasn't yet come to fully realize. Why is she so ashamed and afraid right now? This is what she wanted for so long, wasn't it?

Her short periods of sleep are full of nightmares and she shakes awake quickly. He's been calm and sated all night, locked inside a dream that she knows will soon end. She's weary, now more than ever. He feels like a stranger beside her, though they should be closer now more than ever.

When he became still and tied his arms around her all those hours ago, she cried without knowing why. It could've been fulfilment, an emotional rush that comes with such enormous change, but she also knows it could've been something else. A lingering sensation of loss, as if she already knew what would happen: how the aftermath would go. The darkness covers everything for a little longer, but it doesn't last.

It's finally dawn. The light is vague, but recognizable. For once the thick curtains are left open and not covering the daylight that seeks to engulf their forms. He's starting to wake up, regress. She just wants one more moment, but feels too weak to move or act on this desperate wish. The light affects them both, brings them closer to being aware. The delirium wears down, and the warmth underneath the blankets is escaping. How much longer can they lay like this, lie like this?

She hates herself for getting up, but finds the courage anyway, telling him she'll take a shower. She picks up a towel. He sees the bloodstains. She cannot turn around to look at his face, to see the truth; she'd rather take the lie.

She's alone in the shower, washing the blood, allowing the warm water to fix her new body. She just stands there, caresses the same places his hands wandered last night. It is all different now, isn't it? Some intuition, perhaps just her fears, tell her this, warn her about the change at hand. She stays here for just one more moment, before drying herself up and going back.

She picks up her discarded clothes, sees a glimpse of him in the kitchen, cooking breakfast perhaps. He has a towel around his waist, a t-shirt covering his chest and his hair is on a messy ponytail. She's never seen him like this. Slowly each piece of clothing finds its way back over her body and she walks into the same room with him, still drying her hair.

Her mind is on the sheets – the sight of crimson on them – that'll never wash away from his or her mind. He's polite, chats with her lightly and even smiles while he eats his meal and reads the paper. She knows he's holding out, faking. This isn't him and this isn't the kind of goodbye she wanted from him. It hurts and makes her angry, but she doesn't want to fight. She lets him continue his charade, surrenders silently.

Everything has changed. The change didn't ask them if they wanted it, this alienation. She's sure there was happiness between them before this moment; that the smiles and laughs were genuine. But can she regret being so happy for that one speeding moment? Not really. It was natural advancement and trying to prevent it would've easily caused a similar conflict. Some things simply don't last for long, nor were they intended to.

When she's already gone, he takes away the sheets from his bed, sinks them underwater and applies detergent on them. He scrubs the stains harder and harder, trying his best to rid both his mind and his hands from the stench and the sight. He never wanted this, never thought it through. He knows he should've, he was the adult even if she seemed old.

He doesn't want to see her, to face his guilt. He doesn't want to carry the responsibility any longer. What she wants after this he cannot give and doesn't even want to. Her feelings and his feelings aren't the same shape. Sure he appreciated her as an equal, spoke his mind to her and entertained thoughts, impressed with the way they fit, like partners. But to him she was never the missing part, the thing to complete him.

He fears she _loves_ him. But he doesn't _love _her.

He scrubs the sheets under red water harder, hurting himself in the process. He's angry, a wild animal caught in a cage too small. She tricked him, tried to tame him. Why was he so blind? He blames himself, knowing he should've seen it coming. He let himself be tricked, caught.

This is why he sends her away, to escape her grasp. The act he holds is almost perfect, but she knows he's lying from the little things. She doesn't appreciate his attempts to soften the blow. She'd rather have it straight up. He owes her that much in her opinion. But their worlds are apart, even if she never realized it until now.

She almost forgives him.

* * *


End file.
